Memento
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar/Claire. There are some things only a mother would know.


Meant to post last year, but 2009 snuck up on me and then sort of ran me over. We should have some words about this, year.

**Title**: Memento  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: implied Sylar/Claire, Sandra  
**Summary**: There are some things only a mother would know.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x13  
**Word Count**: 2000  
**Notes**: This was awkward to write, mainly because Claire's mum and I are stuck with the same unfortunate name.

* * *

Sandra's memories are vague, but Claire tells her things.

Like: 'I hate him,' and 'I'm going to kill him,' and Sandra half-remembers meeting him for the first time.

Within that heavy haze she associates only with Odessa, Texas, there's a flickering memory of a polite young man asking, quite persistently, about her daughter. Telling her, 'I'm special. Just like Claire.' Smiling like he knew a secret.

Sandra may not remember much, but she remembers that look.

The pure determination, the relentless kind of almost childlike innocence—this stubborn, focused _want_ that she suspects sank a thousand Greek ships; an incomprehensible and ugly and unhealthy obsession that can clearly do nothing but spiral out of control.

Claire has the same look.

Her eyes shine with vengeance and when she returns at dawn, hoarding stolen security videos, Sandra hesitates to peek over Claire's shoulder. Remembers coming home weeks ago. Finding her daughter bent over broken glass. Asking around the lump in her throat: 'Claire, did he...' because it seemed only logical.

"Wanna watch with me?" Claire hums, and Sandra can't say no.

Claire's been... attentive lately, sharing her secrets, letting her in, because 'I can't protect you, Mom, and there's so little time.'

Sandra pretends her daughter is talking to her and not a distant, imaginary shadow.

"Mm, what are we watching?" she asks cheerfully, fingers wrapped around a large coffee mug, long sleeves covering her calloused knuckles.

Claire sits down at the kitchen table. "I borrowed the surveillance tapes from Stephen Canfield's house," she grins roguishly, reaches for Noah's laptop, and slides it closer. "You know. That Vortex Guy."

"Claire, what did we say about _borrowing_—" Sandra chides.

Claire's back stiffens. Expressionless, she pops one of the disks into the drive. "I'm looking for a weakness, Mom," she explains softly, watching the screen. "Maybe he said something. Like where he's going, or what his plans are. _Something_."

"Honey," Sandra begins gently, gripping her mug with concern. "You don't know that he's still—"

A folder pops up.

"He's alive," Claire says calmly, clicking away.

A video begins to play.

It's hard for Sandra to watch this. It's all weird angles and unfocused motion and unpleasant noise. On-screen, her daughter and her husband are exchanging blows, verbal and physical, and it's unbearable, yes, but it's the clear, ringing echo of a bullet slamming into Claire's shoulder that makes Sandra flinch and glance away.

Claire is oblivious, of course, thoroughly focused on the towering shadow filling the screen.

But slowly, Claire's expression changes. And for a moment, Sandra's little girl is back, sitting there with pink cheeks and an open mouth. Like the time she was in fifth—sixth?—grade and not even cookies, dolls, or puppies could distract her from ogling that boy's—John's? Brody's?—yearbook picture.

"Wait, what are they d..." Claire mutters to herself, voice hoarse with surprise. "Why would they... what the—they're about to get SHOT—oh my g... seriously, who the hell thinks that's a good time to have _sex_?" she argues ramblingly. "I mean... why would Elle—oh. Oh. Gross."

Sandra frowns, looming protectively behind Claire. "What?"

Claire shakes her head with a repulsed little scowl and sighs. "Well, I guess he'd be her type."

Before Sandra can take a look, Claire slams the laptop closed.

"Yeah, okay, I'll look elsewhere," she announces, eyes narrowed and palms pressed against the tablecloth.

"Mm," Sandra agrees, then blinks, unsure why her coffee mug is empty. "Look for what, Claire?"

Soon, it's a few unnecessary memories slipping away.

Unneeded information like where she left her car keys, and where the grocery store is, and how multiplication tables work. But Sandra can make extra copies or buy a GPS or use her fingers to tick off fifths and tenths and there are calculators, after all, so no one needs to know.

"I was _this_ close," Claire confides on her twenty-first birthday, the fire in her eyes burning brighter. Her fists clench. "Almost had him."

Sandra slices a piece of cake, licks her finger, and slides a plate across the table. "I'm sorry, dear, who?"

Claire hesitates. "Sylar, Mom." She forces a smile, warily wrapping her fingers around the spoon. "Never mind." Her eyes brighten. "Aww, raspberry truffle! Did you make this?"

Sandra pauses. "I think so." Then, with a belated flash of realization, remembers. "You almost got him? Sylar? What happened, Claire? Are you okay?"

Claire's eyes darken as she mumbles around the spoon, "He jumped off a building." She looks away. "So did I. But I can't fly. He can." She looks annoyed, eyeing the plate with a murderous frown. "Apparently."

Sandra's lips twitch slightly. "Honey..."

"Don't say it."

Sandra hides a smile, rising. "Milk?"

Claire beams up at her. "Please."

Sandra doesn't understand it. Obsession isn't contagious, and Claire's not the type of girl that has to _have_ something. She never threw fits in the store as a child, never asked for a specific toy or lipgloss or pair of jeans. Claire doesn't _fixate_.

"I can do this, you know," she tells Sandra's back earnestly. "I can catch him. No one else can."

"Of course, dear—" Sandra's hand freezes mid-air, refrigerator door open. "I'm sorry... what did I come to get?"

Claire stands up, the scraping of her chair startling Sandra.

"Milk, Mom," Claire replies carefully, placing a gentle hand on Sandra's shoulder. "It's okay, I'll get it."

Sandra's not sure when things change.

But Claire's gaze becomes intense, her rants fill with a peculiar, consuming heat, her voice lilts as though savoring his name, and there is a profound sense of poorly hidden excitement every time Claire laments her apparent failures.

It's not that Sandra is taking her daughter lightly, but this is Claire, and Sandra has watched her forgive Lyle even when he decapitated her favorite doll. Has seen her 'punish' Mr. Muggles by giving him one cookie instead of two. Has never seen Claire show possessive qualities like this.

Horrified, she wonders how old Claire is. She's still a child, surely. Tries to remember if she's gone to prom yet. Brought a boy home? Graduated? Panic sets in, but then she remembers a polite young man asking, quite persistently, about Claire. Saying he's special, just like her.

Oh, right.

Claire must still be a child, and this... slow hunt, then, is merely a game of tag with some immature boy. Or perhaps hide-and-seek. Claire was always fond of that. Yes. Sandra remembers.

"Honestly, you're like a dog with a bone," she muses playfully, gesturing at the fluffy pile of fur on the floor. "Just like... ah... what's-his-name—"

"...Mr. Muggles, Mom."

Mr. Muggles nudges Sandra with his wet little snout, sprawling by her feet with a listless sigh.

"Yes, Mr. Muggles."

One day, Claire comes home with dark hair and darker eyes. Says she killed him, says it's over, says she doesn't know what to do with herself now that he's gone. Slumps against the wall and looks tragically lost.

With a blink, Sandra glances up from the sink, hands soaked in suds, and courteously informs her, "Not to be rude, but my daughter will be home soon, so I reckon you oughta be on your way, young lady."

Claire dyes her hair back the same night.

On the eve of Sandra's fifty-fourth birthday—or is it fifty-seventh?—a pretty little girl climbs through Sandra's bedroom window, a dark shadow at her back.

"Mom, close your eyes," she says in a whisper so soft it barely carries across the room.

Sandra draws her blanket to her chin. "What—ah, who are you?"

"I'm..." the girl smiles, eyes sad. "I'm here to help you. I promise."

Suspicious, Sandra tries to sit up in bed, but a large cold hand presses against her forehead, forcing her down.

"Careful!" the girl growls, turning angry eyes to the man towering above the bed.

"Not part of the deal," he smirks.

Sandra looks from one to the other, a spark of recognition briefly widening her eyes. "You look familiar," she frowns. "Are y'all on TV?"

"...yeah, she's definitely fried," the man comments nonchalantly.

"Shut up, Sylar," the girl responds with menace, wrapping her warm fingers around Sandra's. "Just fix her." She looks away, adding quietly, "Please."

After a beat, Sylar gives a small shrug, spreading his fingers across Sandra's forehead. "Don't forget your part of the deal, Claire."

Sandra opens her mouth to protest, but her eyelids are heavy and there's a strange pressure in her temples, pushing against her skull and lulling her to sleep.

"Wait," she mumbles, watching the blurry figures shuffle out of the room, the smaller one pausing to look over her shoulder.

"...goodbye, Mom."

Sandra wakes up on the morning of her fifty-sixth birthday and remembers everything.

She remembers Noah awkwardly stuffing a soft squirming bundle in her arms. She remembers falling in love with Claire, hard and fast and helplessly. She remembers testing the name countless times, lazing on the bed and just staring at her little girl.

She remembers the first diaper she fastened incorrectly, the burnt milk, and the teething. Pulling out those wobbly baby teeth, with strings and doorknobs. Brushing the tangles out of Claire's hair and apologizing for every snag. Scrubbing the crayons out of her favorite dress. Washing the blood from Claire's uniform.

But underneath it all, there are memories that don't belong to Sandra.

A mental photograph, frayed and faded from years of use; that first look at the promise of invulnerability and invincibility and _forever_; the first meeting, the second, third, fiftieth; falling hard and fast and helplessly. An image, clear and well-loved, of his flesh knitting itself around bones and muscles and that _smile_, meant just for her.

Sandra knows, with complete certainty, that she will never see her daughter again.

There are dark, distant corners of the world where he will hide her, keep her by his side, consider it a final sacrifice by a loyal daughter and secretly savor the truth.

Sandra sits up in bed, nauseated.

They're mismatched, incompatible, wrong for each other. Claire is too good, too adorable, too young. She's Sandra's little girl and little girls don't rescue their mothers by promising their lives away to monsters.

Then again, monsters don't leave behind presents.

Sandra doesn't understand why he left her this knowledge, but she knows—in the same way she knows her own name—that he has never sincerely apologized to anyone but Claire. That he has died by Noah's hand at the exact moment Claire's heart stopped beating during that damn eclipse. That he has come back to life with the same greedy gasp, awoken to the abstract sense of _I'm not alone_, and kept seeking Claire out even when he didn't want or mean to.

That he has found a purpose in his quiet commitment to a mutual obsession.

And maybe Claire hasn't found his weakness yet, but Sandra has.

After all, his parting memento is full to bursting with the one thing she and Sylar share.

Claire.


End file.
